Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  “What are you doing?” Brennan asked.

  “Killing that fucking thing,” he replied.

  The baby stood up and started to claw at the plastic.

  Vickers swung and hit it in the head.

  The baby fell back, shook its head and got back on its feet.

  “Shit’s gone sideways, man. I’ve never seen a baby walk in my life!” Klyde rambled.

  “That’s not a normal baby,” Dietz said wiping vomit from his mouth.

  The wails of the baby bounced off the walls. It stepped towards the plastic screen again but was stopped by its entangled umbilical cord. It pulled hard and ripped the placenta from the gaping belly. The bloody mass hit the floor with a splatter.

  The sight caused more men to vomit.

  “C’mon, you little bastard!” Vickers barked.

  “We gotta toss this thing out the back,” Owens said looking at a crew chief.

  The crew chief radioed to the pilots.

  “We don’t have time for this. You, you, and you, help me push this entire thing to the back. When we get at a lower altitude, we’ll toss this fucking thing out,” Owens ordered.

  Brennan could feel the plane descending.

  Vickers was determined to kill the thing. He took a wide swing, again striking the baby in the head.

  The swing jolted the baby. It fell and lay in a pool of thick blood, coughing and hacking.

  The crew chief released the pallet, looked at Owens and said, “It’s ready.”

  “Hurry! Push!” Owens commanded.

  Using every ounce of strength fueled by adrenaline, the men pushed the gurney towards the back.

  The crew chief ran past them to a panel. He flipped a switch and hit a large button.

  Lights began to flash inside the fuselage. A whoosh of cold air swept in from the rear of the plane as the back opened like a pair of jaws.

  “One sec,” Brennan said.

  “What?” Owens yelled.

  Brennan ran back to his pack and came back promptly. He held up his hand to show a fragmentation grenade. “Let’s send it off with a bang.”

  “Good idea,” Owens said.

  “Push it just near the edge. I’ll toss it in,” Brennan instructed.

  The baby howled, grunted, and scratched at the plastic.

  “Stop right there!” Brennan hollered.

  Everyone did as he said.

  Brennan popped the thumb clip and pulled the pin. “Someone unzip.”

  Owens carefully unzipped the enclosure near the top.

  The baby jumped up and thrust its arm through.

  Owens flinched.

  Vickers stepped forward, wrench still in hand. He slammed it down on the mutant baby’s arm.

  The child screamed and fell back on top of Princess.

  Seeing his opportunity, Brennan tossed the grenade in the opening and hollered, “Hurry, push it out.”

  Everyone shoved hard and pushed the gurney down the ramp. It slid and fell off the lip and disappeared.

  Brennan watched as it tumbled towards the expansive ocean below.

  Seconds later it exploded.

  “We’re closing it up!” the crew chief barked, referring to the ramp.

  His head spinning from the ordeal, Brennan walked back to his pack and plopped down.

  Vickers raced over and asked, “Did you see me hit that fucking thing?”

  “Not now, Vick, not now,” Brennan said, waving Vickers off.

  Owens came up and sat next to him. “Good call on the grenade.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “You think that was the right call on getting rid of her?”

  Brennan let out a little chuckle. “We’re in uncharted territory. I’d say yes, it was.”

  “Good, ’cause I’ll need you to back me up ’cause when we land and we don’t have Princess, there will be a shit storm.”

  “I got your back, don’t worry,” Brennan answered.

  “Thanks,” Owens said. He stood up.

  “Owens,” Brennan said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  “That, my friend, was a nightmare come to life,” Owens answered.

  Poway, California

  Brett didn’t want to admit it, but he liked the smell of gunpowder. He thought about telling Chris but didn’t want it to sound odd. He finished packing up the gear and cleaned the bench. He took his last target, and just as he was about to toss it away, he looked at it proudly. His groupings were about nine inches wide but enough to stop someone if they meant him or his family harm. He decided against throwing it away; instead he folded it and stuffed it in his pack.

  When Brett emerged from the range, he found Chris still on the phone. He pointed towards the front door, motioning that he’d meet him outside.

  Chris gave him a thumbs-up.

  The midday sun felt great on Brett’s face as he leaned against his car, waiting for Chris to come out. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent Madison a text. Love you.

  No reply.

  Chris exited the range and briskly walked over to Brett. “You won’t believe what happened.”

  “Don’t tell me there was another terror attack,” Brett replied.

  “I said you won’t believe it,” Chris said, getting into his car. “C’mon, hurry up. We only have a little time to get some food.”

  Brett got in.

  Chris started the car and pulled out.

  “What’s the exciting news?” Brett asked.

  “Our school’s janitor was fired.”

  “And why?”

  “I just got off the phone with an old friend of mine from the PD. He says the janitor, a former Marine mind you, contacted them about suspicious activity at the school. Some guy, a Muslim-looking guy, was casing the place for two weeks.”

  “Okay.”

  “The school’s administration fired the poor guy.”

  “Why did they fire him?” Brett asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Some PC shit.”

  “And what about the guy?”

  “Yeah, right, the guy casing the place. They checked him. Seems he came here nine months ago as part of a refugee resettlement from Yemen. They say he’s legit, but they don’t have much to check. There’s hardly anything to cross-reference in Yemen.”

  “Since when do we take refugees from Yemen?”

  “My friend says the guy sought political asylum.”

  “What’s he doing casing the school?” Brett asked, concern in his voice.

  “Not sure, but I want to talk to the janitor,” Chris said. “I want to get his side of the story.”

  “If you get in touch with him, I’d like to join you, okay?” Brett asked.

  “Sure thing. But can you believe it? Canned the poor guy for saying something. I thought we were supposed to say something if we saw something,” Chris said mocking the phrase.

  “Now I’m nervous as hell, man. Maybe we need to set up a security watch at school,” Brett said.

  “Maybe so.”

  Brett looked out the window at the passing cars, his mind spinning with various hypothetical scenarios of attackers at the school. The thoughts horrified him.

  Chris switched topics and asked, “How did you shoot?”

  “Oh, um, good, I did good,” Brett replied.

  Chris could see the information about the school had freaked Brett out. He didn’t want to press him, so he turned up the radio.

  “…San Diego police have been responding to numerous calls today concerning spray-painted markings on buildings around the city and county. What gives the police concern is the symbol painted is that of a red hand…”

  Chris tapped Brett’s arm and said, “You look out of sorts.”

  “Hold on, I’m listening to the radio,” Brett said.

  “…so far police do not have a suspect or suspects and cannot confirm if these red handprints are in anyway connected to the terror group The Bloody Hand or just vandals usin
g the symbol…”

  “The Bloody Hand, that group, the ones who almost killed my brother. Did you hear that?” Brett said.

  “I did.”

  “Do you think those spray-painted hands are from the terror group?”

  “They could be, but it could also be a bunch of teenagers tagging shit because they think it’s cool.”

  Brett jumped on his phone and searched the news story.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Seeing if there’s more info on where those handprints were located,” Brett answered.

  Chris could see the fear on Brett’s face. He wasn’t sure what he should say or do. Maybe Brett needed to work through the issue on his own.

  Brett frantically scrolled through the search results.

  Unsure what to do, Chris changed the radio channel and put on some music. He looked at Brett, smiled and said, “Just remember, don’t get scared, get prepared.”

  Ramona, California

  Cassidy scrolled through the employment ads online. The jobs listed that he knew paid well required background checks. He was tempted to apply, but like before, if there was competition, his past DUI would help the anonymous human resources person weed him out of selection.

  He cursed his prospects as he slammed the laptop closed.

  The television blared an endless stream of updates and personal stories from the terror attack in Copenhagen.

  He sat back and began to watch.

  Images of the terrorists appeared on the screen. Their faces, many old happy photos from social media, showed different people than the killers who had taken to the streets to murder indiscriminately.

  Basher’s devilish grin popped into his mind.

  He had zero doubt that Basher was up to something, but the police were overwhelmed and political correctness had permeated down from the higher offices, preventing the average cop from doing his job.

  Thoughts of Kathy and her smug attitude ate at him. He wanted nothing more than to walk up to her with proof he was right and shove it in her face.

  Tired of hearing about the incident in Copenhagen, he picked up the remote and began to flip through the channels. A movie caught his interest; he stopped and began to watch.

  The image of Basher was stuck in his mind, though. His intuition screamed out that he was right and Basher was casing the school for nefarious reasons.

  A sense of determination gripped him. He turned the television off, grabbed his coat and headed out. If he was going to fail, at least fail miserably, he thought as he got behind the wheel of his truck.

  Ankara, Turkey

  David shot up, sweat dripping off his brow. He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes. The nightmare he’d just woken from had been intense. He’d been having bad dreams since the incident in Copenhagen., but this one was by far the worst.

  It was nighttime. His room was drenched in an amber hue from the two streetlights below his open window.

  He stood, stretched and walked to see what was happening outside.

  A cool breeze swept in and cooled his skin.

  He pushed the drapes fully open and stood gazing out. The sounds of the city washed over him.

  Joram came to mind. David looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost nine. He had taken more than a nap, he had been asleep for many hours, a clear indication his body needed the rest, but now he needed to go back to the reason he had traveled so far.

  His thoughts were broken when his phone began to vibrate.

  The glow of the screen partially lit the room. He glanced and saw the screen, it read, UNKNOWN CALLER. Curious as always, he picked it up and answered, “Hello.”

  “David, it’s Dylan. You able to talk?” Grim asked.

  “Sure, what’s up?” David asked.

  “Face to face. Meet me in the hotel bar in ten, okay?”

  David glanced at the clock again. “Sure.”

  “See you then,” Grim said and hung up.

  “Well, this has gotten more interesting,” David said out loud. He put the phone in his back pocket, grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

  David looked around the smoke-filled crowded bar. It was a different scene than the other day. The seats were filled with a menagerie of faces. A collection from around the world, many he suspected were government workers from dozens of nations all chatting and enjoying a drink. Around them were young attractive women, no doubt prostitutes looking for a john or intel officers conducting countersurveillance with hopes of securing a new asset.

  David scanned the room but couldn’t spot his old friend. Something jabbed into his back. He jumped.

  “Stick it up,” a voice boomed behind David.

  “You got me.” David laughed and turned around to see Grim, a large smile stretched across his aging face.

  “Good to see you. How about we grab a table in the corner,” Grim said pointing to the far end of the bar.

  “Sure,” David said.

  The two walked to the table, Grim leading the way.

  Grim took the seat with his back to the wall.

  David sat across from him.

  A young waiter promptly arrived. “Drinks?”

  “Two beers,” Grim replied without asking David what he wanted. He appeared to be in a hurry.

  “We have Budweiser—”

  Grim interrupted the waiter. “Bud is fine, thanks.”

  The waiter left as fast as he had shown up.

  David folded his hands and placed them on the table. He leaned in and said, “You seem on edge. You good?”

  Grim mirrored David, leaned close and replied, “I need your help.”

  “Let me guess, you want to know about my conversations with the defector?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Fine, what?”

  “First, tell me you’re not recording this.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I can trust you, right? This is off the record. We need info and your guy might be able to shed light on something critically important.”

  David raised his hands and said, “Not recording and this is off the record. To be quite honest, I’m more than happy to help.”

  “That incident did change you,” Grim said astonished at David’s willingness. “I was fully expecting I’d have to arm twist a bit.”

  “When we talked the other day, I told you if I can help, let me know.”

  “Good, your country appreciates it.”

  The waiter suddenly appeared. He placed the beers down and said, “Can I interest—”

  “No, now please leave us alone,” Grim snapped.

  The waiter nodded and shuffled off.

  David picked up his beer and tipped it back.

  Ignoring his drink, Grim said, “What I’m about to tell you is classified. You cannot, at all, repeat what I tell you.”

  Those words perked David’s interest. He held the beer in his grip and leaned even closer.

  “When we talked, you said you were in Ankara to interview and update a story concerning an ISIS recruit who turned defector. I didn’t think much of it until this morning. We received a list of names from a source in Syria. On this list was the name Joram. I began to wonder where I’d heard that name. I then remembered your defector. I pulled up your old Economist story and there he was, Joram, the recruit turned ISIS soldier, who turned ISIS commander.”

  “ISIS commander? That’s news to me.”

  “That’s not it, though, his name appeared on an ISIS special missions roster. He was the lead for this team.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hold on. The thing is, this team went missing two years ago. ISIS listed them all as killed in action.”

  “Okay, that’s weird. Maybe it’s another Joram.”

  “Let me finish,” Grim snapped. “It wasn’t just his name that stuck in my head, but the picture you had of him. We received this in the packet today as well,” Grim said and pulled out a photo showing a group of smiling faces, their hands raised
, palms out. All were standing in front of a dilapidated building. “Right there, that’s your guy, center, standing.”

  David took the photo and stared at the face. “Yep, that’s him. But I can assure you he’s not dead. I was just with him this morning. Apparently, ISIS can’t keep good records, or you are looking for a different Joram.”

  “Has he mentioned anything about a group called The Bloody Hand?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “You think he’s a member of the group who carried out Copenhagen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But this photo could be an old photo from Syria. There’s nothing on it to verify when it was taken, and like I said, there could be dozens with that name.”

  “We used facial recognition on the photo. The names came back and matched the roster for the special missions team that was purported killed two years ago.”

  “The photo could be older, when he was with ISIS.”

  “Look more closely.”

  David did but couldn’t spot anything that would help identify the timing. “I see a photo of ISIS goons, all waving in front of a war-torn building, probably taken in Raqqa.”

  Grim snatched the photo, placed it on the table, pointed and said, “Nope. To the right, look in the distance over the building.”

  David leaned close and said, “Is that a billboard?”

  “Yeah, how many billboards do you think there are in ISIS-controlled Raqqa?”

  “But that photo could be from a lot of different places, maybe Syria before he left for ISIS. Where did you get this?”

  “From a smartphone we found in an apartment in north Paris after an anti-terror raid days ago.”

  “But that doesn’t say anything.”

  “The billboard in the background. We zoomed in. It’s an advertisement for a large flea market that’s held annually in Laredo. You can’t see with the naked eye, but in the lower right, the dates for the show are listed.”

  “And they were?”

  “This past fall.”

  “I know, as you do, that ISIS has sent cell members across the border from Mexico. You’re not telling me anything that’s beyond top secret.”

  Grim sighed. “The Bloody Hand is an offshoot of ISIS. It separated because they’ve become disenchanted with the internal politics and corruption. They believe it lost its way. I think the core members of it are in this photo. Joram being one of them. They defected years ago and formed The Bloody Hand. They’re now operational but we know they’ve begun work on other projects…projects of the biological kind. That raid in Somalia, it was on an old research facility.”